


Sexypants

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Brief Bruce and Thor, Christmas, Clothing Kink, M/M, OMG young RDJ pic, Pre-Slash Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t think he’d run across this person before, but he...is so arrestingly <i>pretty</i> that Steve feels his breath catch, and Stark’s by his side again, nudging his shoulder.</p><p>“Oh hey, my hooker pants!” he says, and Steve gapes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on Avengerkink: _Okay, so can we just acknowledge that[this picture](https://i.imgur.com/xUH2kQT.jpg) exists for a moment?_
> 
> _"...because on the one hand (RDJ) is beautiful and I want to bite his ass. But on the other hand he is wearing shiny, metallic pants and leaning up against a limo in a hooker pose._
> 
> _Can I have someone on the team finding this picture of Tony and either A) wanting to jump his bones, B) mocking him mercilessly for it, or C) all of the above?_

Tony is with him in the workshop, exploding projections (Steve was relieved to learn that this didn’t mean actually blowing anything up; “Well, technically, I _am_ blowing things up, because when you increase the size of the projections, it’s called ‘blowing them up’.” “Oh, come on, Stark, you know what I meant.”)

...and Steve is goofing off. Okay, so he’s working, really, because his job for now is catching up on so much of what he missed during the time he was frozen. The history of conflict in the latter half of the 20th century and beyond, geopolitical milestones, things like that. He’d had briefings, of course, but Tony has JARVIS, and Steve can sit in the lab and type things in and ask questions and use not just the internet but LexisNexis and all of those deep web crawlers and he loves having all of this knowledge at his fingertips. And he loves the projections.

He’s pretty sure Stark’s secretly laughing at his enthusiasm half the time, but Steve really doesn’t care; he can learn about anything he wants and doesn’t even have to poke through 20 books in the reference section of some library.

The other thing Steve loves is the way things just branch out. One minute he’s reading about the draft in the 1960s and the next, the Grenada invasion in 1983, “Hey, it’s called Operation Urgent Fury.”

“That’s a naming convention all SHIELD operations should adopt,” Stark snickers in reply. “Operation Impatient Fury. Operation Pissed-Off Fury, etc.”

Steve grins and sidetracks into the next year and somehow ends up detouring into pop culture. “A Miss America _resigned_? Because of nude pictures?”

Stark looks up. “Oh, yeah.”

“In the 1980s, though? I mean, nudes are artistic.”

“Here.” Stark wanders over and taps his keyboard.

“Ah. That other woman’s...what is she doing to her?” Steve squints at the display and suddenly it’s _exploded_. “Whoa.”

“I know, right? Vanessa Williams. Pretty hot. It didn’t actually kill her career or anything.”

Steve just nods and clears his throat, ignoring Stark’s leer. He shifts through celebrity photos from the same year and notes the fashions: brassieres (and only brassieres) -- sometimes with giant crucifixes. Hmm. He isn’t sure he approves of the second part, though the bras, he supposes, cover as much as a swimming suit these days. He looks at more musicians of the age, in everything from workman-style denims to ruffled shirts like pirates in films, which seems old-fashioned for the 1980s. He clicks on a socialite site and his artists’ eye plays over the top image. [Those pants](http://bestof.provocateuse.com/show/robert_downey_jr/89) are certainly what Steve considers futuristic. And _shiny_. They make the model’s legs and behind look...good.

Steve blinks. The figure is wearing what looks to be a pretty ordinary sweater and is posing against a limousine in those blindingly shiny pants with longish hair, and the handsome cut of his jawline looks so familiar. He doesn’t think he’d run across this person before, but he...is so arrestingly _pretty_ that Steve feels his breath catch, and Stark’s by his side again, nudging his shoulder.

“Oh hey, my hooker pants!” he says, and Steve gapes.

“That’s...you!” he manages, after a long moment. Of course it is. And he doesn’t know if he’d classify the shiny trousers as “hooker pants” but the way he’s standing there, leaning up against that flashy car, Tony does look a little...

“It’s like I’m a total rent boy there,” he crows.”Peddling ass. Dick for dollars. Oh my _god_ , I wonder whatever happened to those pants. Probably lost ‘em at a party, but I loved those. The sweater’s a little Cosby in retrospect, but I’ll have you know it was designer.”

Steve can only nod.

“Check my pert little ass! I must have been 19. Or maybe it was later? Twenty-something? Huh.” Stark turns and poses. “Still firm, though.” He grabs Steve’s hand, and before he can pull it away, it’s on his behind. “See? Buns of steel.”

“Uh...” Steve says, coloring to the roots of his hair.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking, Cap,” Stark clucks.

Steve realizes he hasn’t moved his hand away and does that, quickly, folding his arms over his chest and clearing his throat again. “You...do?”

“Yeah. I guess I have to take back the spangles and tight pants comments about your getup now, right? I mean, look at my shiny gold pants. Pot, meet kettle, right?”

Steve looks at the photo again, cataloging the details as his fingers twitch against the sides of his ribs, because he knows, he _knows_ that this young Stark...Tony... is going to be the next thing he puts in his sketchbook.

“Anyway,” Stark says. “I need food. You?”

Steve nods absently, and Stark takes his keyboard over again. “I’ll just pre-empt the inevitable discovery of this,” and Steve can hear the printer going, “and stick a copy up on the common area fridge. Let’s just get it the teasing over with now, huh?”

“I wasn’t going to...” Steve begins, mouth dry, “tease you.”

You’re too kind. No really, you're entirely too kind in general.” Tony winks and pats him on the shoulder before grabbing the photo. “Come on. Lunch beckons,” he says, and Steve finds himself following Tony out of his workshop, trying to keep his eyes focused somewhere around his shoulders and not anywhere, well, lower.

He fails dismally, and he can’t help imagining Tony in those shiny gold pants.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony's photo is stuck to the stainless steel refrigerator with a jokey disc that says: "My parents went to Asteroid M and all I got was this stupid magnet," and he's chagrined when Stark catches him grimacing at it.

"You really hate those pants, don't you?" he muses, and Steve shakes his head hurriedly as he polishes off the last of his sandwich. 

"No, I told you-"

"Just because you're not teasing me doesn't mean you don't secretly find this picture hilarious."

"Tony," he says, and he can't help the note of exasperation in his voice, he really can't. "I just think you should take it down if you think people will poke fun."

"It's not that," Stark sniffs. He snaps a picture of the photo with his phone. "I'll just share this..." 

"You look nice," Steve says quietly, but Tony doesn't seem to hear him. He laughs and holds out his phone. 

"So very predictable," he says with a grin. "Pepper is repelled most by the shoes, and Rhodey by the haircut. Or lack of haircut, I guess. Something here about 'the love child of Keanu Reeves' and Prince Valiant.' Nice burn, man." Tony keys something in. Probably 'nice burn, man'.

"Thought you knew Rhodey back then," Steve says, sipping the beer he'd been offered for flavor rather than for effect.

"I did; I knew him at school, but later on he was deployed all the time. We didn't have smartphones then for instant photographic embarrassment." He sets his empty beer bottle aside. "I'm off like a dirty shirt. Need to cross-section an addition to the repulsor gloves, because hot steam probably has a use beyond cleaning shower stalls, Right? Right. You coming back down with me? You can look up more Miss Americas. God, you should marry one. That'd be like a royal wedding."

Steve winces at the thought of a picture of him and some woman he doesn't know ending up on set of plates, like he's seen in the antique shops he's become addicted to trawling on Saturdays. "Nah, I think I'm just going to have a nap."

Naturally, Stark shoots him an eyeroll. "Okay, grandpa."

Steve begins to protest, but he's getting a smirk in reply and he can recognize when he's being fucked-with. "Screw you, Stark. I like naps."

"I _hate_ naps," Tony says. "When I was a kid I'd rebel against forced naptime. It's oppression."

"Somehow I'm not surprised," Steve laughs as Tony flits out, and when the kitchen is empty and quiet again, he glances at the door and then stands and casts an eye over the photo on the refrigerator, trying to commit the details to memory so that he can...draw it later.

*

Steve's pretty sure that Tony doesn't know what Steve looks up on the laptop on his room or the things he asks JARVIS, but he can't know for certain, really. Though that one time he'd requested a copy of a French stag film Bucky had described in graphic detail to him once and nobody had said a word, so he figured he was in the clear with privacy.

(It hadn't been a very sexy blue movie after all. Steve had sort of built it up in his mind after Bucky had told him about it, but watching the thing with his head tilted to the side in bed one night, all Steve thought about was the snap of Bucky's gum and his Wrigley's spearmint breath because he'd practically panted as he'd outlined the scene, but the film was basically a gal giggling as she chased her friend around with a whip and spanked her repeatedly.)

Different strokes, Steve supposes. At any rate, it should be easier to find a pair of those gold pants than an pornographic film from 1926, right? 

Two hours later, Steve decides he was wrong about that and wonders why he didn't think to ask an expert sooner. "JARVIS?" 

"Yes, Captain Rogers?" 

"That photograph of uh, Tony...the one he printed out in his workshop..." Steve waits, and realizes that the AI is waiting for him to finish, so clears his throat. "Well, I'm trying to locate those pants he was wearing." 

"I believe sir had said he'd misplaced them." 

"No, I mean an identical pair. Or some that are, well, similar." All he'd been able to locate were Elvis and Michael Jackson costumes, and something called leggings that weren't exactly...right. 

(They were intriguing, however.) 

"I've located six pairs of Courreges vintage lamé trousers in gold and silver in varying sizes," JARVIS said almost immediately. "One in Miami, one in New Jersey, one in Denver, one in Los Angeles, and two in Las Vegas at the Siegfried and Roy auction." 

"Um..." 

"Will these be for you, Captain?" 

"No," Steve says hurriedly, and maybe this is a stupid idea, but it's nearly Christmas so it wouldn't be _odd_ to give Tony something he'd said he'd missed very much, because he'd definitely said he'd missed having those, and Steve really liked the look of him in... "No, for...for Tony. Are there any in his size?" 

"The gold pair in Miami in an online resale shop are his exact size, and the inventory listing indicates that they're 'New, without tags'. Undoubtedly an... unwanted gift. Shall I order them?" 

"Yes," Steve decides. "Yes, please do. Wait, are they expensive?" 

"Sixty dollars, plus shipping." 

"Go ahead, JARVIS," he says, and sighs, leaning back in his desk chair before stiffening. "Wait!" 

"...Captain?" 

"Could this be a secret?" Steve asks. "Our secret, I mean? I'd like them to be a surprise. From a...from a mystery benefactor." 

"I am authorized to keep your requests and purchases confidential," JARVIS reassures him warmly. "Only information which poses a threat to Mr Stark's physical safety cannot be sequestered in my memory banks." 

"That's good," Steve says. "I hope he likes these." 

"Oh, I believe that he will," JARVIS says, and Steve swears that the AI sounds amused. 

*

Two days later, a package appears in Steve's cubby in the common area, and checking to make sure no one is around, he sticks it under his arm and spirits it back to his suite. He slits the box to find another inside, with the trousers folded neatly inside a sheaf of white tissue paper. 

He carefully wraps the garment in gold paper to match its contents (Steve didn’t work in the gift-wrapping department of Abraham & Straus on Fulton Street for three Christmases running for nothing) then adds red ribbon, and then puts brown wrapping paper around the whole thing along with Tony’s suite address. 

JARVIS gives him the all-clear, and Steve leaves it with the rest of Tony’s mail, ready for delivery. 

He doesn't think "What have I done?" until later that afternoon, when he realizes the mail had been spirited away. What had he been thinking, giving a friend and colleague a pair of tight, gold pants? That had to be inappropriate. Steve thanks his lucky stars that his name wasn't on the gift, and that Tony doesn't say a thing about the trousers at dinner with him and some of the others -- Bruce and Clint. Perhaps he simply wouldn't bother to open the box; Tony gets lots of mail, after all. 

Steve retires to his suite early after that and looks through his closet and pulls out the sharp charcoal suit he's worn once and a silvery silk tie to go with it, and hangs it up, checking to make sure his shoes are polished. He doesn't own a dinner jacket, despite Tony's prodding that he _fucking needs a tux for these things, for God's sake_. Tomorrow night is Tony's big Christmas party, and everyone's invited, including some SHIELD staff, Stark Industries bigwigs, and the Avengers. And a couple of movie stars, the kind they call A-list these days. Steve isn't sure it's going to be _fun_ exactly, with that penny candy mix of people, but Tony had done his best to convince them at dinner that it would be, so he's game.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning is full; a workout with a new bag in the gym and then a run through Central Park and around it, the crisp winter air biting into Steve’s lungs. It’s something he enjoys immensely after a childhood dreading the chill.

Back in the building, he sees an army of staff setting up for the party. There are orchids and tiered...things and wheeled carts full of what appear to be cheeses. And crates of wine and champagne. He gives a low whistle. Tony Stark doesn’t do anything by halves.

Steve’s in his quarters after his shower, enjoying a cup of coffee and an art break, when a sharp rap comes at the door and Tony strides in without being told that he may, wearing both armored gloves, a backpack, an undershirt and pajama bottoms.

Steve barely has the time to slide another sheet over the sketch he’s working on, but he does, because...Tony really wouldn’t be amused to see what he’s working on at the moment. Well, he might be amused, but in the wrong way. A very wrong way.

“Thanks for knocking, Stark,” he says, failing to sound as sarcastic as he’d like, he immediately realizes.

“You’re welcome,” Tony replies, distractedly. “I did knock, right?”

“I didn’t say...”

“Come in? Hey, sorry.” Tony gives him an apologetic look. “I just...need something wrinkled.”

Steve stands, pushing the tablet behind him on his desk with the back of his elbow. “Is that another geriatric joke?”

“Huh? No.” Tony looks at him, then laughs, surprised. “But that’s good. You’re priceless, love it.”

Steve sighs. “Okay, what did you need again? Something--”

“Wrinkled. Like a shirt.”

“And you...don’t have one?”

Tony gives him a put-upon look. “All of my clothes are either freshly dry-cleaned or in bundles from the laundry. Don’t you have some creased plaid monstrosity I can borrow for ten seconds, here?”

“Well, not if you’re going to insult my wardrobe...”

“I’m not!” Tony yells from Steve’s bedroom and god, he didn’t ask before inviting himself in there either. “God, I was kidding.” Steve trails in and watches him look through his walk-in closet and stop short. “You don’t have any clothes.”

“I have enough.”

“They’re all pressed.”

“I...I press my clothes. Since I don’t have that many, it doesn’t take much time, does it?” Steve raises one logical brow, but Tony looks puzzled.

“You can take the boy out of the Army...okay, here’s the thing. You won’t have to anymore. This...is awesome.” Tony waves a repulsor glove in an arc. He shuts the closet door with his hip and his eyes fall on the suit hanging behind it. It’s not really wrinkled, but Steve hasn’t had a chance to get a crease out of the sleeve yet with the steam iron. 

“Perfect.”

“Tony, what are you--”

“Stand back,” Tony orders, and aims his glove at the fabric, then waves his hand, and the glove emits a steamy mist from his fingers. “Cool, huh?”

“Uh.”

“Okay, that was weaksauce, but it’s powering up, still. See, commercial clothes steamers require distilled water, and also salt, but a large quantity of it and you have to keep refilling the thing. It’s a hassle.” He turns. “The pack is full of tap water and my special formula and salt is unnecessary.”

“Are you going to gently mist villains to death?”

“No, Cap. Try to keep up. This is a commercial invention which will revolutionize clothing care. Here, it’s ready now.” Steve hears the familiar servo power-up the gloves make when Iron Man is preparing to fire a blast, and this time, a prodigious wall of white vapor shoots out of both hands.

Steve is about to say something about how that looks more effective when his suit _catches fire._

“Whoops,” Tony says, quickly shrugging off the backpack and opening the top, then dousing the flaming fabric with splashes of water from the canister. “Not enough water. Too much formula. Or maybe the formula needs some work. Shit. JARVIS! No sprinklers! I got this.”

Steve presses his fingertips to his temples as the smell of fried Italian wool fills the room. “I was going to wear that tonight to your event.”

“Well,” Tony says helplessly, pulling off one of the gloves. “On the bright side, I got the first party foul out of the way.”

“ _Tony_.”

“It could have been spilled nacho cheese. That’s a much duller story. And it could have been your Cap uniform, though that wouldn’t have caught fire. Uh, probably. C’mon,” Tony curls a hand around Steve’s shoulder as they survey the sartorial wreckage. “I’ll replace the suit,” Tony says quickly, near his ear. “Wear something else.”

Steve tries to focus. “You said it was formal. I only have the one suit. _Had_.”

“I said,” Tony gestures at the smouldering fabric, “that this bash was black tie. That isn’t. Uh. wasn’t.”

“But I don’t have-”

“Yes you do. Because when the place I sent you to measured you for that, they made you a dinner suit, too. Did you ever pick it up? I’ll call them up right now and have it delivered. Problem solved.”

Steve looks back at the door. “That was a $400 suit,” he says mournfully.

Tony shakes his head with a tiny grin, and looks as if he’s having an internal debate with himself...and losing. “It’s cute that you didn’t realize I had them charge you 5% and picked up the rest.”

“That...” Steve frowns, dismayed. “That was a $8,000 suit you just ruined? Eight thousand dollars? For one suit? Tony, you shouldn’t have...you--”

“It’s Brioni! James Bond wears Brioni! Clark Gable wore Brioni! But it’s fine!” Tony says. “I’m totally writing that off as an R&D expense for the SteamFist. Tee em.”

“No housewife is going to want to put a hot metal combustible glove on to get wrinkles out of clothes, Stark,” Steve grumbles.

“That is so sexist, you codger, ” Tony says over his shoulder as he closes the front door of the suite. “See you tonight!”

Steve sits on the sofa. “SteamFist is a stupid name.” And he’s not a sexist. “And I am not a sexist!” he calls out, but Tony is gone.

*

Sure enough, a perfectly-tailored dinner suit arrives within two hours, complete with a snowy white shirt, black tie, and cummerbund. It’s all perfectly crease-free, which is a relief; Steve’s practically afraid to touch the thing. Shaving for the party, Steve can’t help wondering how much the tuxedo cost.

Then he feels guilty for worrying how much the damned gold lamé pants cost. Sixty lousy dollars.

On the other hand, he supposes that buying Tony a pair of pants isn’t that inappropriate after all, given the reciprocal circumstances. Times have likely changed when it comes to appropriate gifting between friends.

As he dresses, he figures he might cop to the purchase after all; Tony will think it’s a joke, which is fine with Steve. If he ever even opens the box, which Steve doubts.

He looks over the sketch he’d finished this afternoon. It’s Tony, in the golden trousers and simple sweater, but when it came to his face, Steve couldn’t help drawing Tony as he looks today. He doesn’t know that person he used to be, pretty as he is.

Tony is kinda...pretty still.

And _that’s_ an inappropriate thought for a friend to have, so Steve focuses on tying his shoes and heads down to the elevator and the ballroom on the second floor of Stark Tower.


	4. Chapter 4

The first person Steve runs into in the main hall downstairs is Maria Hill, a captivating sight in a sea green strapless gown. 

“Wow,” he says, offering a low whistle, and she grins and offers a hand daintily, then snickers.

“You don’t look too shabby yourself,” she says. “I feel like I’m playing dress-up, going from a uniform all day to this.”

“I hear that,” Colonel Rhodes says, wrapping an arm around Maria’s waist as she colors slightly, and it dawns on Steve that they’re each other’s “plus one.”

He’s never seen Maria out of her SHIELD gear, and he misses wearing a uniform himself. It’s so simple getting dressed when you wear the same thing every day to work. He’s suddenly extra-grateful for his Captain America uniform, because damned if it’s not comfortable as well as being...flame retardant.

The tuxedo is nice too, though. Steve realizes that the reason it’s not pulling over his biceps and the collar isn’t strangling him is because it was all custom-made to fit. The black fabric drapes beautifully over his shoulders and the pants break perfectly on his dress shoes.

Steve decides he’ll have to thank Tony more effusively for the suit. Suits.

Rhodey and Maria tug him into a queue into the main ballroom and when he enters, he’s announced by JARVIS -- “Mr Steven Rogers!” like it’s some sort of debutante event. Luckily, people are busy gabbing in clusters around the room as servers circulate with trays, and no one seems to be paying much attention to the entrances. He can’t help but notice the very pretty woman at the grand piano throwing him a saucy wink and launching into a few bars of Star Spangled Man With A Plan, however, and he shakes his head, embarrassed, as Colonel James Rhodes and Agent Maria Hill are announced after him.

He takes an offered glass of champagne from a passing tray and turns to the others. “Where’s Stark, anyway? Wouldn’t think he’d want to miss his own party.”

“Oh, he’s always fashionably late,” Rhodey says with an eye roll. “He’ll be the last one here.” Thor, dressed in something caped and...Asgardian over a tuxedo, approaches and encases Steve in a bear hug.

“Miss Jennifer Lawrence!” says JARVIS at the doorway, and the pianist launches into “This Girl Is On Fire.”

“Oh shit. That’s Alicia Keys,” Maria says, as the guests struggle to figure out whom to applaud.

*

Steve’s had a second glass of champagne and various unfamiliar cheeses and mini-quiches by the time he dances with Maria, thankfully not stomping on her pointy satin shoes, before Natasha cuts in, also in pointy satin shoes, but with a glittering black dress.

“Hey, Cap,” she says, and he grins at her as they sway, enjoying how different everyone looks in their spiffiest regalia. “Having fun?”

“Yes,” Steve says definitively. The party isn’t stuffy at all, with a different musician on stage now, and the tune isn’t hard to dance to. He doesn’t know the artist or the song, but it’s something about working in a five and dime and a girl in a raspberry beret and that sounds nice. Most of Tony’s music is about shooting to kill or paranoid...death and things like that.

He’s about to joke about that to Natasha when Rhodey joins them, but the song ends and they’re interrupted by a loud chiming and the singer intoning “I AM IRON MAN” before launching into crunchy guitar.

The stage floor opens up and Iron Man slowly ascends on a rotating dais. “Ah, subtle. As ever,” Rhodey says.

The crowd forgets to be elegant, clapping and whistling as machinery appears, dipping from the ceiling to strip off the suit, mask first. Tony grins, wearing red-lensed sunglasses in the face of the bright spotlights, as the dais keeps rotating to the music, unveiling his arms, shoulders, the chestpiece and the back plate. Finally, the legs of the suit are disassembled and fall aside, spirited away by the robotic arms, and Tony takes a bow and the microphone.

“Let me love you,” Tony says to the crowd, arms out. “You first, Prince.” He and the singer bump fists.

“I still can’t get over the fact that he got Prince,” Natasha whispers.

“I can’t get over the fact that he got Prince _to sing Iron Man_ ,” Rhodey says, applauding.

But Steve stops listening then, because he realizes that Tony’s wearing a black dinner jacket and white shirt, similar to his own, but under these, he’s...wearing the pants. The gold lamé pants that Steve bought and wrapped and tucked into his incoming mail.

He’s wearing the pants.

He bites his lip so hard he tastes copper. Tony turns, saying something to the band and shaking hands, and the pants cover his ass like a second shimmery skin, and in Steve’s suddenly dumbstruck and dry-mouthed opinion, the effect is almost sinful.

“Whoa. What’s Stark wearing?” Maria asks, and Rhodey shakes his head.

“Oh man, he went retro.”

“Is that gold lamé?” Clint asks, wrapping an arm around Natasha’s shoulders. “Oh, those are like the picture on the fridge. How...disco. Also, I’m pissed off now because he’s not even wearing a tie and are those high-tops? He talked me into this monkey suit. ‘It’s _black tie,_ Clint. It’s a _formal evening_ , Clint. _Sleeves are mandatory,_ Clint’.” 

“Be quiet, Clint,” Natasha puts her fingertips over his mouth, but she’s smiling. “You look good in sleeves. Sometimes.” Steve laughs, remembering that breakfast conversation. _”Back me up here, Rogers; tell him the clothes make the man,”_ Tony had said. Steve hadn’t agreed, exactly, but right now he’s forcing himself not to look at Tony’s sleek, shiny behind so he’s willing to concede he might have been wrong about some things.

“Sleeves are highly overrated,” Thor declares. “They interfere with one’s freedom of movement.”

“See?” Clint waves a hand.

“You two just like to flaunt your guns,” Natasha sniffs, exasperated.

“I think Tony’s actually...pulling those pants off,” Maria says.

“ _What_?” Steve chokes out and spins, half-expecting the robotic suit-extractor to whisk Tony’s gold pants away in one piece like a stripper’s trick trousers, but he’s just glad-handing presumed celebrities and investors.

“...few could, you’ve gotta admit,” Rhodey says.

“Cap?” Natasha’s brows are knitted with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Fine!” he says brightly, though he can feel fresh perspiration dotting his brow. “I’ve just-- I’ll be right back.” he turns and strides away, completely missing Tony’s eyes burning a hole in his back as he heads out of the ballroom.

*

After several splashes of cold water and deep breaths with Steve’s knuckles pressed to the cold marble counter of the washroom, he emerges, laughing at himself under his breath. Because it’s ridiculous, really.

They’re just pants, after all.

For the rest of the evening, there’s more food, more ineffectual champagne, more dancing, and always, no matter how he tries not to stare openly, more Tony. He stops by while Steve and Bruce are chatting around their hot lobster puffs to say hello, but it’s obvious Tony’s compelled to talk to everyone in the room -- all of the employees and investors and A-listers, so he can’t linger.

He tries to keep his glances surreptitious and infrequent, but gives up after a while. Tony is used to being the center of attention and Steve isn’t the only one paying it.

It just seems as if every time Steve tries to look at Tony (he hopes) nonchalantly, Tony’s looking right back.

*

The night winds down slowly, and Tony isn’t the first to leave, but not the last either, and Steve bids Rhodey and Maria goodbye and steps into the elevator. He’s not tired at all, but since Tony isn’t around to unabashedly gawk at, he doesn’t see much point in hanging around the party any longer.

The elevator goes right past his floor, and Steve’s punching buttons and trying to fix the malfunction when it stops at Tony’s and the door slides open and stays that way.

“Tony?” Steve ventures into the half-dark of the penthouse. He can see a light on, though, and the elevator’s not shifting, so he walks in and it shuts behind him silently. “JARVIS?”

“Mister Stark is on the balcony,” JARVIS informs him, and Steve heads that way. Tony’s leaning against the rail, the lights of the city spread before him, and Steve clears his throat.

“Hey, Tony?” he says. “The elevator uh, brought me here.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“I have...my cell phone,” Steve says, patting his pocket to make sure that it’s still there.

“No, I...” Tony starts, and then turns. He’s still in those molten gold trousers, but wearing a plain black t-shirt over them. “In person.”

“Good, I wanted to talk to you too,” Steve says, raising his eyes with effort. “Thanks. I mean, for the party. That was great.” Tony waves a dismissive hand and takes a drink with the other. “And the dinner suit. This was actually comfortable and I didn’t feel out of place at your fancy affair, so...thank you. Also, please don’t ever tell me what it cost.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but I’m also not,” Tony says, pulling on Steve’s elbow and leading him into the living room. He sits and sets his drink down.

“What do you have to be sorry about?” Steve asks, giving his neck a scratch.

“For igniting your suit earlier.”

“You already apologized, Tony. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, see...I do, because I did it on purpose.”

Steve sinks to the leather sofa. “..what?”

Next to him, Tony rolls his eyes, fingers tapping a silent drum solo on his knee. “I torched your expensive Brioni suit on purpose to get you to wear that tuxedo.” He sits back. “There.”

“Why?” Steve asks. “For what possible...”

“Shit, I’m just gonna lay this out, Cap, okay? And you’re going to laugh, and probably not talk to me for a couple of days. Weeks. Longer, I don’t know. It’s just--” Tony leans toward him. “I had kind of a long-standing fantasy involving you. Dressed like that. And I...” he squints at the ceiling “I think it was manipulative of me to perform machinations to get you into one. And possibly creepy. But definitely manipulative. Machiavellian? Maybe. A lot of m’s, anyway. A multitude.”

“A fantasy,” Steve echoes, and his chest feels a little tight. “You had a fantasy. About me?”

“Yeah,” Tony lets out an audible breath. “Long-standing. Okay. See, I’ve had this crush on you ever since I...” he runs his fingers through his hair. “Before I’d ever met you, okay? You loomed large in my teenage fantasy life. But it wasn’t the whole spangled suit thing -- though I, I love that uniform, man. I really do. It’s very flattering. I sometimes stare.”

Steve nods, numbly.

“It’s just...this thing where you’re in a crowded room and I’m there too, and you turn around slowly wearing a tuxedo and our eyes meet...I don’t know. I’m not divulging the rest of this.” The corner of Tony’s mouth quirks upward.

“Why didn’t you just ask me to wear this thing?” Steve asks seriously, plucking at his lapels.

“I tried! I mean, I hinted. I hinted around a lot and...I don’t know. You’re Captain America. Jesus, I can’t just order you around. And I don’t have any right to...well, like I said. I feel ridiculous telling you this story, and I hope you appreciate my intense feelings of shame, here.”

Steve shakes his head, and when he looks at Tony again, he’s staring back.

“So anyway. I’m sorry I treated you like a sex object without your knowledge. And I’m replacing your suit. And um...sorry.” Tony moves to get up and pass by, but Steve holds out an arm and stops him, palm against his glossy metallic thigh.

“Wait,” he says.

Tony does. Steve looks up and can see the shadow of his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Tony, I had a fantasy too, okay? I bought you those pants,” Steve blurts out, and he can feel heat sweep over his face in a wave.

“You? You!” Tony points at him. “See, I was 97% certain that it was Pepper, maybe in collusion with Rhodey, because she’s scarily efficient and he’s sneaky. They denied culpability but they’re both dirty liars, so.”

“No they’re not, Tony.”

“No, they’re not,” Tony says agreeably. “Well-played, though. I got ribbed by Prince over these motherfuckers. Which was classic, because he owns peach spandex flares with giant buttons up the legs so he’s not one to talk, and I’ll cherish that moment always.”

And Tony swings a leg over Steve and sits on his thighs then, pushing him back on the sofa, and he’s very, very close, so close Steve can smell his cologne. “Also, I sent Pepper a selfie before the party and she told me that I looked like...what did she say? Oh right, a ‘hot buttered mess’.”

“You don’t,” Steve murmurs, and there’s really nowhere to put his hands except Tony’s shiny hips.

Suddenly, he can’t breathe effectively, and he knows it’s not the asthma coming back. “So, what happens in your sartorial fantasy, Steve?” Tony says, dragging a thumb over Steve’s jaw as the other presses along his lapel.

“I...nothing specific?” Steve says, swallowing hard. “I just thought you...I liked the way you look in those.”

“Oh,” Tony says, softly. “Oh?”

“Okay, yes, in general I liked how you look in them and specifically, I thought your ass looked really great. I might have made a sketch. Oh my god.” Steve looks away, but risks a look back at Tony, who only skips one beat, hearing this. Or maybe two.

“It does, doesn’t it? Still. Jesus. I do work out, but these are flattering as hell.”

“Wow. Your ego’s just going...” Steve makes an explode-y motion with his hands and then puts them back where they were, digging his fingertips into the gold fabric, because it won’t do for Tony to move. “How about yours? Your black tie uh...fetish thing.”

“It’s not the tuxedo, Steve. It’s specifically a _you_ thing. You. In a tuxedo.” 

“The party is still going on downstairs,” Steve points out. “You want to go back and I’ll stand across the room or whatever? I don’t know, I’ve made a couple of movies so I could take direction. You can explain how it goes.”

“Or...I can just show you, right here,” Tony says, voice dropping low. “I mean, a picture’s worth a thousand words.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes as Tony’s mouth descends on his. “It can be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude, I listened to so much music writing this. Prince's U Got the Look, Raspberry Beret, This Girl is On Fire and Empire State of Mind by Alicia Keys, Iron Man by Black Sabbath (duh), Gold by Spandau Ballet (you're indestructible!), Pumped-up Kicks by Foster the People, and particularly [The Way You Look Tonight ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9ZGKALMMuc) by Frank Sinatra. I'm sorry I couldn't cobble together a soundtrack to go with but my iTunes hates me right now. :) <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Sexypants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001828) by [AshesandGhost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshesandGhost/pseuds/AshesandGhost)




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